Left End Edwards

"Sure! There are brushes in the case and they mean that the fellow has hair on his head, Tom. So there's no use looking for a bald-headed man, eh? That's what they call 'the process of elimination,' isn't it? Say, what are you trying to do with those things? Ruin them? Please remember that I've got to wear them to-night."

"Looking for laundry marks," replied Tom. "But there aren't any. I guess they're new ones." He dropped the pajamas regretfully and turned his attention to the other objects in the bag. "A magazine," he muttered.

"'Fine'!—as Horace would say. The man can read. Therefore he is not blind. Elimination again! At this rate we'll know all about him in a minute, Tom. Gee, but you're a wise guy. Have a look at the collar and tell me the fellow's name. Go on!"

"It begins with an M, anyway," muttered Tom, studying the object in question.

"Ha!" exclaimed Steve melodramatically. "The net is closing! He has hair on his head, is not blind, wears purple pajamas and spells his name with an M! The rest is easy, Tom. Put your hat on and we'll go out and get him."

"Oh, shut up, you silly goat!" Tom had the magazine in his hands again and was glancing through it. Suddenly, with an exclamation, he thrust it into Steve's hands. "There! Hold it up and let it fall open itself, Steve!"

"All right. What about it?"

"Look where it opened!"

"Page 64."

"Yes, but what's there?"

"'Men Who Have Made Football History, by–'"

"There you are! Don't you see! That's what he was reading. He's a football man and that B is his football letter!"

"Oh! But, say, Tom, you're forgetting that this suit-case is supposed to have been stolen from someone else. Then what?"

"We don't know that it was. We just thought so. It looks now as if it really belonged to the fellow."

"And he went and swapped it for mine? What would he do that for?"

"Maybe he thought yours might have something valuable in it," faltered Tom. "Maybe—say, Steve, perhaps he got yours by mistake!"

"Sure!" replied the other sarcastically. "Reached down and dragged it from under your feet, thinking all the while it was his. Sounds very probable—I don't think!"

"Well, you can see for yourself–"

"What was that?" interrupted Steve.

"What was what?"

"I thought I heard a knock at the door." They listened. It sounded again. Steve hustled the things back into the bag and slammed the lid shut in a twinkling. Then, "Come in!" he called.

The door opened and a tall youth stepped inside. He carried a suit-case in one hand. Tom gasped. It was the "confidence-man"!

CHAPTER VII

THE CONFIDENCE-MAN

"Hi," greeted the visitor, with a smile, as he slid the suit-case across the floor and faced the two boys. "Want to swap bags?"

"That—that's mine!" exploded Steve. "Where'd you get it?"

The visitor pulled a chair out from the wall and seated himself nonchalantly. "And that," he responded, nodding at the bag on the bed, "is mine. I didn't think the pajamas would fit you and I was mighty sure yours wouldn't fit me. So I dropped around to make an exchange."

"You're the fellow in the station!" exclaimed Tom accusingly.

"Right-o! I'm the 'sneak-thief.'"

"I knew it!" declared Tom triumphantly. "I saw you in the dining-hall and told Steve it was you and he wouldn't believe it!"

"Wouldn't he?" laughed the visitor.

"I suppose it's some sort of a silly joke," said Steve bewilderedly. "Would you mind telling me why you—why you took my bag?"

"Glad to, Edwards. You are Edwards, aren't you? I thought so. And this chap's Hall? Well, my name's Miller. So now we know each other. Would you mind sitting down, you fellows?"

Steve sank on to the bed and Tom retreated to the unoccupied chair, from where he viewed Miller with fascinated attention.

"It was this way, you fellows," explained Miller. "I may be a bit thin-skinned, but I don't like being called a sneak-thief. Edwards here told you, Hall, to look after your bags because there were sneak-thieves around. And then he looked at me very impolitely. After he went away I saw that you really did suspect me of being something of the sort and it occurred to me that it might be amusing to teach you chaps not to pass compliments."

"I didn't mean you to hear me," said Steve confusedly.

"I couldn't help it, as you spoke right out," replied Miller drily. "Well, so when Hall changed his seat I went along and tried to talk to him. But he was foxy, Hall was. He wasn't going to be fooled! When it got to be train time I spun him a yarn about a harmless old man across the room and got him to look at him. Then I changed the bags. I thought you fellows would take the same train and I meant to give you back your bag then. But you weren't on it and so I suppose you were looking around the station for me. Was that it?"

"I didn't get back in time," said Steve. "We didn't find out about the bags until the train had gone. Then we did look around, and we told a policeman, and–"

Miller put his head back and laughed delightedly. "Bully!" he cried. "You chaps are wonders!"

"Well, what would you have done?" asked Tom indignantly. "How were we to know that it was a joke?"

"Oh, I'd have done the same thing, of course," answered the other soothingly. "Only the idea of the New York police department being on the lookout for me struck me as a bit humorous."

"Tom says you asked him about Tannersville," said Steve. "How did you know he was from there?"

"Not difficult," chuckled Miller. "It's on the end of his bag. And I knew he was coming to Brimfield because there was a tag on the handle. I couldn't make out your names, but I could see 'Brimfield, N. Y.' all right."

Steve and Tom smiled foolishly. "I never thought of that," murmured Tom. "We—we thought you were a confidence-man!"

"So I thought you thought," laughed Miller. "Well, here's your property, Edwards. I dare say it was rather a mean joke to play on you, but you sort of invited it, you see."

"I don't care now that I've got it back," responded Steve philosophically. "Tom was certain you were the fellow who took my bag when he saw you in dining-hall and he was all heated up about it. Wanted to arrest you at once, I guess."

"Well, I was right, though, wasn't I?" demanded Tom. "You said it couldn't be the same chap. But I knew!"

"Yes, you're some sleuth," agreed Steve. "You were right and I was wrong, as you always are."

"How about that present you were to give me?" inquired Tom.

"You'll get it, all right; just before Christmas." Then, to Miller: "We—I had your things out of your bag," he said apologetically. "I thought I'd have to wear those pajamas."

"They'd have been a bit large, I guess," laughed Miller. "Still, they are brand-clean and you could have wrapped them around you a few times and turned them up at the feet and hands. Well, how have you chaps found everything? All right?"

"Yes, thanks," said Steve. "We forgot to check our trunks at the Grand Central Station, though, and so we're sort of hard-up for things to wear."

"Too bad." Miller smiled. "I guess you chaps haven't travelled around much, eh?"

"Not much. This is the first time we've ever been so far east."

"Well, I don't blame you for getting a bit confused in New York. It's a tough old place to get around in unless you know the ropes. If you need collars or anything maybe I can help you out. I suppose, though, mine wouldn't fit."

"We'll get on all right, thanks," replied Steve. "Our trunks will surely be along in the morning. The man who drove us up here had the agent telegraph back for them and said he'd fetch them as soon as they came."

"Jimmy Horse? He will if he doesn't forget."

"This fellow said his name was Hoskins, I think," said Tom.

"Yes, we call him Jimmy Horse. He will probably be along with them before noon. Just depends on whether he remembers them and how busy he is. Still, not many fellows get here before the eleven o'clock train and so he ought to find time to bring the trunks. If he doesn't show up soon after breakfast you'd better telephone to him. The booth's in Main Hall, around the corner from the office. I suppose you saw old 'Quite So'?"

"Who?" asked Steve.

"Mr. Brooke, the secretary. We call him 'Quite So' because he's always saying that. Didn't you notice?"

"I did," said Tom. "I thought maybe he was Mr. Fernald, though."

"No, you won't see Josh much. He lives around the corner there in The Cottage. You'll be lucky if you don't see him, too. When you call on Josh it's usually because you've been and gone and done something. He will be at Faculty Reception to-morrow evening, though. That's in Upper Hall at eight o'clock. Better go, fellows; everyone does. Have you met your Hall Master, Mr. Daley?"

"Yes, we stopped in at his room after supper," answered Steve. "Is he–" He hesitated.

Miller laughed. "Go on and say it, Edwards! Is he what?"

"I was going to ask if he was liked."

"Oh, yes, Daley's all right. Rather shy, but he's young yet. This is only his second year. You'll like him better when you've known him awhile. What form are you fellows in?"

"Fourth. At least, we hope we are."

"Oh, you'll make it. They'll put you in, anyway, and then drop you back if you don't keep up. That's a pleasant little trick of theirs here. You'll have Daley in French and German. Take my advice and don't have fun with him just because you can. Most of the new fellows try to make life a burden to him because he gets kind of rattled and tries to swallow his tongue when he talks. But they're generally sorry for it later. He stands about so much and then—bing! Off you go to Josh! And here's another tip, fellows. Always be dead serious with 'Uncle Sim.' That's Mr. Simkins, Greek instructor. If you can look as if you'd lost all your friends and bitten your tongue you'll make a big hit with him. He doesn't know a joke even when it's labelled and can't stand any flippancy. I made a pun in class once; I've forgotten what it was, but it was a bright and scintillant little effort; and Uncle Sim told me I'd end on the gallows. He's never forgotten that and still views me with deep suspicion."

"We will try to remember," laughed Steve. "I suppose you are in the Sixth Form?"

"Yes, this is my last year here. I ought to have been out last year, but I slipped a cog when I first came and got dropped a form. You see, I made the mistake of thinking that the principal branches were Football, Baseball and Hockey. When I'd woke up to the fact that a little attention to mathematics and languages and such foolishness was required it was too late, and—plop!—sound of falling!"

Steve recalled a similar warning of his father's and silently made up his mind then and there to not make Miller's mistake.

"Do you play football?" asked Tom. "I mean, are you on the team?"

"Yes, I—I'm on the team." Miller's smile had an odd quality that puzzled Tom at the moment. "You chaps know the game?"

"Steve has played more than I have," replied Tom. "He was on our high school team at left end last year. He's pretty good, Steve is. I didn't make the 'Varsity, but I played a couple of years with the scrubs."

"Tom plays a good game," said Steve. "I suppose it's pretty hard to get on the team here."

"About the same as anywhere," answered Miller. "If you show the goods you're all right." He viewed Steve speculatively and then turned an appraising gaze on Tom. "You chaps look pretty fit for this time of year. What do you weigh, Edwards?"

Steve slipped on the tiling and fell sidewise into the water

"About a hundred and thirty-eight."

"You look solid, too," said Miller approvingly. "You chaps show up in togs day after to-morrow at four. Look me up and I'll see that you get a good chance to show what you can do. Where have you played, Hall?"

"At tackle, mostly. I played half a little last fall."

"You look rather likely, I think. Don't be disappointed if you don't make the first or second this year, fellows. Keep going. There's your hall team. Try for that. You'll get lots of good fun and experience. I tell you this not to discourage you but because we've kept a lot of last year's fellows and it's going to be harder than usual to break into the first team, I guess. And that means that a good many of the second team fellows will be disappointed and will have to stay where they are. Hard on them, but lucky for the school. I don't know whether you chaps understand the football situation with us?"

"I don't believe so," replied Steve.

"Well, it's like this. When I came here four years ago there wasn't any team. Before that, five or six years before, they'd played, but about that time football got into disfavour and the faculty stopped it. I believe they allowed the hall teams to play, but that didn't last long. My second year here they lifted the ban and we started a team. Of course it didn't amount to much that first year and we got licked right and left. The next year, though, we did a good deal better, and last year we turned out a mighty good team. We lost only two games out of nine and tied one. Unfortunately, though, one of the games we lost was the game with Claflin, which is our big game of the year. Claflin has beaten us three years running now and this year we're out for revenge with a rolling R. Considering that we've played only three seasons, we've got a pretty good start. Our coach is a dandy, a chap named Robey; played with Brown the year they downed Pennsy; and he's been building up this year's team ever since he started in. At first we didn't have more than forty candidates to choose from. Last year about sixty fellows turned out and this fall I guess we'll have nearer eighty. Robey started the hall teams up again year before last and that helped a lot. The best of the hall team chaps went into the second last year, and now, this year, we've got fellows with three years' experience behind them. So, you see, Edwards, we haven't got much football history at Brimfield and our system is still pretty new, but we're getting on! And this fall if we don't lick Claflin—well, if we don't, I'll have missed my guess."

Miller's lean, good-looking face had lighted up with enthusiasm during his recital, and, when he had ended, as though impatient to begin the campaign which was to end in the rout of the enemy, he got up and took a turn the length of the room. He didn't look the least bit in the world like a confidence-man to-night and the two boys marvelled at their earlier suspicions. Miller was tall, lean with the leanness of muscles unhampered by useless flesh, and lithe. He had very clear brown eyes, a straight nose and high cheek bones that somehow reminded Steve of the engraved portrait of John C. Calhoun that hung in the library at home. Altogether, from the top of his well-shaped head to the soles of his rubber-shod feet, he was good to look at, clean-cut, well-groomed, healthy and very much alive. Steve found himself wishing that some day he might find himself playing shoulder to shoulder with Miller. He hated to think what would happen to the enemy in such a case!

Miller paused at the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled a trifle apologetically. "Well, that's the way it is, you chaps," he went on. "So, whether you make the first or the second or neither, you keep on playing and trying. There's another year coming for you fellows; two of them, in fact. Keep that in mind, and if you don't get what you want this year keep plugging. And don't fail to come out Wednesday and do your best. You'll get a fair show and if you can play the game well enough you'll get places. Now I must run along with my bag. I'm glad to have met you chaps. If I can help you in any way don't fail to call on me. You'll find me in 7 Hensey. Come and see me anyway. Miller's the name. And, by the way, I'm glad you chaps took my little joke so decently and didn't get waxy about it. If you had, I'd probably have told it around and you'd have got a lot of joshing. As it is, no one knows it and no one will. Good-night."

And Miller, his suit-case in hand, smiled, nodded and went out. They could hear him whistling merrily until the landing door had closed behind him.

"I meant to ask him what position he played," said Steve regretfully. "I'll bet he's a corker, though!"

"I'll bet you he is," agreed Tom warmly.

"And he seemed a rattling good sort, too, didn't he?"

"Yes. And I'm glad I lost my bag. If I hadn't we mightn't have known him, seeing that he's a Sixth Form fellow."

"I guess he's sort of prominent," mused Tom. "He gives you the idea of being someone, doesn't he?"

"Oh, he's someone, all right! Do you think he really wants us to call on him, Tom? Or—or was he just being polite?"

"Both, I guess. I don't suppose we'd better call unless he asks us again. We don't want to act fresh, you know. Besides," and Tom smiled mischievously, "I'm not sure we ought to associate with him."

"Why not?" asked Steve incredulously.

"Well, seeing that he's a confidence-man–"

CHAPTER VIII

IN THE RUBBING ROOM

After breakfast the next morning, a breakfast eaten with excellent appetites, the two boys set out on a sightseeing tour about the school. They went first to the gymnasium. The big front door was locked, but Steve was not to be denied and eventually gained entrance through a little door at the rear which led into the boiler-room and from there found their way into the main basement where were situated the big swimming tank, a commodious baseball cage and a bowling alley. On the floor above they found themselves in a square hall, entered from the front door, from which other doors led to the gymnasium, the locker and bathrooms and a small office bearing the sign "Physical Director." From the hall a fireproof stairway ascended with a turn to the running-track and a large room which was evidently used as a meeting hall. Settees were neatly arranged in front of a platform, a row of low windows admitted a flood of morning sunshine and against the walls hung many photographs of athletic teams. Most of them showed groups of track and field men, although a few were of hockey sevens and there were three football teams in evidence. The explorers paid more attention to these photographs than the others, and Steve, whose patriotism was already strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour.

"Huh!" he grumbled. "'Brimfield 0; Claflin 12'; 'Brimfield 3; Claflin 11'; 'Brimfield 6; Claflin 9.' Bet you next time it'll be some different, Tom!"

"Rather!" said Tom stoutly. "Let's go on down and see the gym."

They tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of the steel lockers.

"The fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared Steve approvingly. "Some of these lockers have got things in them," he continued, peeping into one. "There's a bat in here, and a towel and some clothes."

Tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment and now summoned Steve to join him. There was a high table in the centre of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held numerous bottles and boxes. "It's the rubbing room," said Steve. "Here, get busy, Tom!" And he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on his back.

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "Where's it hurt you? This the spot?"

And Tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of Steve's ribs that the latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. It was at that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them.

"Beat it, you fresh kids! You've got no business in here!"

The speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. He had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. He was standing in the doorway and his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped knickerbockers. Somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he reminded Tom of a clown at a circus, and Tom made the mistake of grinning. The big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face.

"Wipe it off!" he said threateningly.

Steve and Tom looked at the table.

"Wipe what off?" asked Tom, at a loss.

"Wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "And get out of here, both of you, and stay out. If you don't, I'll throw you out!"

This somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances between the culprits. Neither Steve nor Tom were quarrelsome, nor had they had more than a boy's usual share of fist battles, but the bullying speech and attitude of the round-faced youth was so uncalled for and exasperating that Steve's temper got the better of him for the moment.

"We weren't doing any harm here," he declared indignantly. "And we'll get out, but we're not afraid of you, even if you have got piano legs!"

The big fellow pulled his hands from his pockets with an angry growl and, clenching his fists, strode toward the boys. But at that instant footsteps sounded in the locker room, and the bully's hands dropped and he turned his head toward the door just as a small, red-haired and freckle-faced little Irishman came into sight.

"Hello, Eric the Red," he said jovially. "An' what might you be doin' down here, me boy?"

"I'm telling these fresh kids to get out of here," replied the youth. "Any objections?"

The little Irishman seemed surprised, and he smiled, but the boys noted that his small and rather greenish eyes narrowed.

"None at all, at all, me boy. If I had I'd very soon tell you, d'ye see? But what harm are they doin'? Sure, if I don't mind them bein' here, why would you?"

"They haven't any business in this room, and you know it, Danny. They're too fresh, anyway."

"Well, that's what we all are at some time. Let the boys be. Was you wantin' anything, boys?"

"No, we were just looking around the place. This door was open and we came in. We didn't know there was any harm in it," concluded Steve.

"No more there was," said Danny soothingly.

"They were rough-housing all over the place," growled the big fellow. "If you can stand it I can, though. Only"—and he turned a wrathful gaze on Steve—"if you ever get fresh with me again you'll get the licking that's coming to you, kid." He turned away toward the locker room. "Say, Danny, got a key to my locker? I've lost mine and I want to get into it a minute."

"I have not," replied Danny cheerfully. "You'll have to have one fitted, me boy."

"Hasn't anyone a master-key?" demanded the other.

"They have not. Find Patsy; he'll fit one for you in ten minutes."

"That's a funny state of things," grumbled the big fellow. "They ought to have duplicates on hand. Somebody's always losing a key, and–"

The rest was lost as the youth disappeared into the further room. Danny winked gravely at the two boys.

"Who is he?" asked Steve curiously.

"Him? His name's Sawyer, Eric Sawyer. He is sufferin' from a terrible complaint, boys, an' it makes him that cross a bear would run away from him, I'm thinkin'!"

"What's the trouble with him?"

"He has what the doctors do be callin' an ingrowin' grouch," replied Danny soberly. "'Tis due to over-exposure of the ego, they tell me, resultin' in an inflamed condition of the amoor proper, that same bein' French an' maybe beyond your comprehension."

The boys laughed and Danny swung himself to the table and patted it invitingly. "Sit down, boys, an' tell me all about it," he said. "Who may you be, now?"

"His name is Hall and mine is Edwards," replied Steve, as he and Tom followed Danny's example and swung their feet from the table. "We're new boys."

"I suspected as much," replied Danny drily. "An' where might be your place of residence?"

"Tannersville, Pennsylvania."

"Think o' that now!" marvelled Danny. "Sure, you're a long ways from home. Is this place you say anywhere near Philadelphia?"

"Oh, no, it's a long ways from there. It's out in the western part of the state."

"I was in Philadelphia once to see the games at the college over there," pursued Danny. "It's a fine town."